


Midnight Visions Burn

by DarkDreamsOfHannigram



Series: Hannibal Season 2: Nightmares and Reminiscences [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Dub-Con fantasy dream rape by the wendigo?, M/M, Other, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDreamsOfHannigram/pseuds/DarkDreamsOfHannigram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In "Mukozuke," Will has a vision of the Wendigo emerging from his back. This is interrupted by Alana Bloom. What if it hadn't been?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Visions Burn

The vision? Hallucination? Of the Wendigo bursting through his skin had disturbed Will to the point of soul wrenching despair. He didn't even know what to call it. The encephalitis was gone, so he couldn't blame it on that. A waking dream. These came to him more and more frequently now, generated by shame, guilt, horror at his own responsibility for sending Beverly Katz to her death. He'd told her to stay away. But of course, he had to have known she wouldn't listen. Beverly, who, despite her belief in the evidence, had still been willing to listen to him. Maybe the only one. And now she was dead.  
  
He certainly felt no guilt at sending Matthew Brown to either himself be harmed, or to harm Hannibal Lecter. Whatever scenario played out, a killer would be the victim this time.  
  
But still. Lecter had sent Abel Gideon after Alana Bloom. And sending Brown after Lecter was taking a page from his book, and Will knew it. Lecter had wanted Will to realize how alike they were. Now that was becoming evident and Will couldn't deny it. Thus, the Wendigo inside of him had been made manifest.   
  
He lay down, and drifted into a shallow sleep that was more a trance, as he pondered these evil things.   
  
When it happened again, he wasn't really surprised.  
  
He felt himself thrown to the floor, on his hands and knees; painful spikes emerging from his naked back. Gagging on his own bile, sweat streaming off of his entire body, but curiously no blood, shaking and gasping as it emerged.  
  
But this time, Alana Bloom wasn't there to break the fever dream. It kept going, the way it would have if it hadn't been interrupted the first time. Its becoming was unstoppable and it would not be denied being brought forth.  
  
It tore itself from him, but never let go. Contact with Will's body would not be given up, even as it seemed to detach into a separate being; but it wasn't separate and never would be again.  
  
It was cold; it burned Will where it touched him, but it was the burn of ice. Claw-like fingers gripped his throat and squeezed. It was in control of his breathing, and it let him know by its movements that if he stayed perfectly still, he'd be allowed just enough oxygen, but no more.  
  
Its other claws found their way to his ribcage. It traced each bone, and felt his intercostal muscles as they struggled to expand. It traced each in turn, and Will could feel its cold breath exhale onto the back of his neck in what seemed akin to pleasure. It moved slowly, rhythmically behind him, holding him in place. When Will felt something hard, long, and infinitely cold pressing into the flesh of his ass, he wanted to gasp, but even that reaction was denied him. He wanted to cry out in fear, but only a broken sob escaped.  
  
In his mind, he screamed against this, recoiled in the horror of what he knew was about to happen. What he couldn't stop. Perversely, the frozen clawed hand found its way down to his cock, and his heart dropped when he realized he was hard.   
  
Another pleased huff of frost on his neck. It was gratified to find him excited. It began stroking him slowly, burning with its icy grip. The claws at his throat let up just enough to allow a pitiful moan to escape his traitorous mouth. It took this as impetus to quicken its pace.   
  
The part of it that had been resting against his flesh now probed at his entrance. He tried to relax, knowing the incursion would be painful, but knowing also that he could not prevent it. It was slow; it breached him gradually, stretching, withdrawing, penetrating him again and again. Will tried not to make a sound, fearing it would go faster. But inexorably, it filled him.   
  
Once he felt the thing's thighs, for lack of a better word, against his body, it stilled. Will felt sick from the cold and the dread. Stretched and filled but so empty. It allowed him a deep breath, and then pulled all the way out of him.   
  
Up until now it hadn't really made a noise, but now, as it plunged into him brutally, Will could hear a deep, low growl that rattled his brain inside his skull. All was cold nausea, mixed with pleasure, forced upon him. It stroked his cock in time with its own rhythm, which quickened by degrees. It forced his legs open wider, fucking him impossibly deep.  
  
It let go of his neck, and now Will was free to scream. He still couldn't move; it held him tightly by the shoulder now. But even though he'd been released, he was unable to catch his breath. His heart hammered so loudly, blood rushing in his ears, but so, so cold.  
  
Its growl deepened and its pace quickened, and Will felt a sickening rise of his own release. It pounded into his ass with inhuman force, stroking him harder and faster until he felt it sink its claws into his flesh. Its release sent ice into Will's veins, and he felt his blood turn viscous, frozen. And he was coming too, wailing in horror, as he spilled over onto its clawed hand, just as cold.  
  
And just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Will was awake again, in reality on his hands and knees. He'd divested himself of his shirt; his prison jumpsuit was pushed halfway down his thighs, along with his underwear. He was soaked in sweat. His hand was slick and his cock was

sore. It was a dream, after all, but he'd been masturbating very hard it seemed.   
  
His slight sense of relief was shattered when he looked up and remembered the camera, its light blinking red.   
  
.....  
  
Chilton, in his office, could scarcely believe what he'd just witnessed. Will had been making noises as if he'd been choking. He'd furiously pushed his jumpsuit down, and taken off his shirt. On his knees, he began to stroke himself, with what looked like a painfully hard grasp. His orgasm was accompanied by terrible shrieks of horror.  
  
The office was Chilton's inner sanctum, the place from which he derived his power, sense of purpose, and identity. But now, here he was, watching Will Graham act out some nightmare fantasy, and Frederick Chilton was aroused. He wanted nothing more than to relieve himself then and there, but couldn't allow himself; he couldn't reconcile the juxtaposition of his outer self, the one he presented to the world, embodied in this place, with his dark inner desires, which he feared were just as base as those of the men he watched from his throne of superiority.  
  
But copying the segment of the video digitally and saving it to his laptop for later was easily accomplished. He palmed at his erection idly through his trousers as he saved the file. It seemed his plans for the evening had been made.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today?  
> Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,  
> And turn about, in your complexion play  
> Madness and horror, cold and taciturn.  
> -La Muse malade, Charles Baudelaire


End file.
